Practice
by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: Nothing has to be perfect the first time. (hinayachi)


**A.N.** **: I've been wanting to write hinayachi for a long time, but just haven't gotten around to doing it. So, here's this.**

* * *

The crickets have begun their song by the time this practice session ends, the sharp smell of approaching rain souring outside. The sky has gone black, cloaked thick with clouds. The soft rumble of thunder rolls beyond the mountains, the boys' laughter echoing off the cement. The school stands dark and looming and empty behind them, always an unsettling sight. Some scatter in pairs, some break off alone. It is the middle of the week and the day is not over yet. There are still things to be done at home. Chores and homework and much needed baths. It falls over them heavily, makes some of them linger with the drag of its weight.

Yachi says her goodbyes, distractedly. Some dishes are sitting in her kitchen sink, a project only half finished on her desk. She chews on the inside of her cheek as she starts on her way, reaching up to grip at the straps of her backpack. She makes it just past the gates when he falls into step beside her, smiling apologetically when she screeches to a stop with a gasp.

"I'm sorry," Hinata says, hands coming up between them. "Did I frighten you?"

She has a hand over her chest, as if to still her beating heart. "Of course not," she sighs shakily.

"Would it be cool if I walked you home?" he asks, nodding back the way she's headed. "It's late—I'd get worried."

He's been particularly good about this. Even on the rare occasion practice _didn't_ run late, he still insisted on accompanying her. Sometimes, on the pretext of needing a few more study sessions. Sometimes, a little more forthright than that.

She follows him back to the bike racks, and on the way there he opens up his umbrella for her to take. They don't live anywhere near each other. His home lies somewhere on the outskirts, over some big hill she's never crossed over. Hers, in the thick of town. Almost in opposite directions. The first time he'd walked her, it was only halfway. A quick, curt bow from both parties, and then he was hurrying away to make it home in time for dinner.

He seldom takes her invitation up to the apartment, grinning nervously as he waves his hands and stumbles over excuses. Before, it was the indecency.

Now, the fear of giving people the wrong idea.

"Hey, uh," he begins, allowing their shoulders to brush. The rain has begun to sprinkle down, it catches on his other arm but he doesn't bother reacting. "I was wondering…"

Yachi thinks things have gotten more uncomfortable, made awkward by the shift in their dynamics. Friendship was easy. There were no expectations. Just the capacity to understand one another, and the willingness that follows. This—isn't. As much.

There's this underlying sense of anticipation, a fluttering thing beneath the surface. Always, always at the pits of their stomachs. The tips of their fingers. The end of their tongues. Waiting to be expelled, but without the means of doing so.

Yachi watches his Adam's apple bob for a second, mouth snapping shut.

"I think, uh. Things are going well."

She isn't sure where he's going with this, the way he slides his gaze away isn't anything out of the ordinary but the words are unsettling. She turns them over in her mind a dozen times before he ever continues the thought, gut sinking and palms going clammy. She swallows hard, but can't bring herself to say anything.

"I was wondering if you were – if you were cool with me…with us—go – going up."

Yachi furrows her brow at him, waiting until he looks at her. "Up?"

Hinata averts his gaze again with an embarrassed frown. "That's not… That's not right, is it? I meant – I meant, further. If we went…further."

It takes a moment, the pitter of rain falling against the umbrella filling the space between them. She can almost pick up the sounds of his breaths, bated in apprehension. "What…do you mean?"

They're perhaps a block from her home, the stores nearby bright and inviting. He leans his bike against the building nearest them, clearing his throat needlessly. His hair mats to his skin and as he turns back to her she tilts the umbrella over him, too, forcing herself to step into his space. Just as quickly, he stumbles back away from her. The light is scant, but she catches the darkening of his face. The widening of his eyes. They round out until the whites reflect, his nostrils flaring.

Yachi has an inkling, now, of what he means. Insecurity stamps it shut, her body drawing closer despite herself in order to shield him from the downpour once more. "Hinata?" she asks, voice tight.

"I—uh," he mumbles, forcing himself to hold still. "No, this is. This is okay."

"Are you talking about," she asks, voice lowering to a whisper; as if what they're discussing is illegal, "what I… _think_ you're talking about?"

Hinata hesitates, hands drawing up, dropping, and then drawing up again. "C – Can you—are you okay with this?"

Yachi pauses, clutching at the umbrella's handle for dear life. "I…think so."

"Ha—okay," Hinata breathes, nervously. His hands flex, open and shut, over and over again at his sides. "I… I'm gonna… Just, uh. H – Hold still."

She waits, avoiding his gaze, but nothing happens. She watches his feet, the way he shuffles forward and then back again. When his hands finally come to rest on her shoulders, she almost feels her soul exit her own body. She jumps and snatches her gaze up to his, and it suddenly becomes too real. His eyes, big and brown and every bit as afraid as she is, staring right back. His cheeks so red, his mouth carved into a small, sharp, determined frown. He is bent down at the knees, the shoulders, dipping just to fit into her space—at her level. His fingers dig at her shoulders and she nearly winces.

But he's drawing close, his breath coming shallow on her face. Too close, at some point, to even maintain eye contact. She glances down, mistakenly at his mouth, and finds she cannot look away. His lips are a little chapped. His nose brushes hers, he tilts his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Pursing his lips, in that way people do when they kiss someone's cheek. Neither one knows any other way to do this.

His lips are sticky, and a little too warm. They pop wetly off of hers, gathering her sleeves up in his fingers. She shuts her eyes before he can find her watching, balling up her free hand into a fist.

"Was," he says, almost against her skin. "Was that bad?"

"I – I don't know," she says honestly, squinting her eyes open.

He deflates immediately.

"Ah!" she hurries to comfort him. "But, it's all about practice right? That's what I heard! Everyone – everyone I've ever asked told me it gets better!"

He blinks, and just as quickly regains some semblance of his confidence—scant as it already was. "Right!" he says, perking up. "We'll just keep trying till we get it right!"

.x.

He isn't exaggerating.

He walks her home every day. And every day, he makes sure to press his lips to hers in goodbye.

Always clumsily, but with the determination to improve.

He never does. Neither of them do.

They scrunch their eyes shut and pucker their lips and draw away frowning, red at the faces and entirely confused.

It doesn't feel good. Not the way everyone says it should.

.x.

"I have an idea," Yachi says quickly, backing away before he can land a kiss. She smiles before he can take it as rejection, curling one hand around his. "My mom takes night shifts every weekend, starting on Friday. We'll be alone. We can practice, without being afraid of getting caught."

Hinata flushes, uncertain. "Are you sure? What if something bad happens?"

"You can control yourself," Yachi says, squeezing his hand gently. "I trust you."

As promised, Friday night he lingers at the convenience store down the block until she gives him the green light. Her mom gone, and the door locked behind them. She considers allowing him into her bedroom, but the thought of him there, alone together, makes her throat grow dry. They settle for the living room couch, some old soap opera providing them background noise. They sit, knees touching, not meeting each other's eyes.

Everyone knows they're dating, at school. There's no hiding it. The boys can pry any amount of information they want from Hinata and Yachi has never been any good at lying to Shimizu. And so they're stuck between being forced to overshare, and fumbling around half-truths. Yes, they've held hands. Yes, they've gone on a date or two—what, exactly, they won't say. Some movie, or a walk at the park, or a phone call in the middle of the night mostly spent in nervous silence.

No, they haven't kissed, yet.

Yachi tucks her hair behind her ear as he settles a shaky hand on her knee. She holds still, the way he always asks her to. Holds her breath. Holds her hands tight at her middle and pouts just so. Just enough. His lips meet hers, quick, fleeting, and then he leans away.

"Maybe we're doing this wrong," he finally admits, and Yachi breathes out all the air she'd been holding.

She looks away, pauses, and then springs up to her feet. "I know a movie!"

"H—wha?" Hinata mumbles, staring after her as she moves around the coffee table.

"My mom has tons of romance movies!" Yachi says, kneeling down to pop open a cabinet. "I know one that has a kiss scene!"

They skip through the movie until they find it, but somehow this only makes them more awkward. Glancing at one another in embarrassment as the room fills with swelling music and sucking sounds. Yachi sets aside the remote, but doesn't turn off the movie.

They don't know where to start. Maybe there'd been overacting, but there's a whole lot of movement they don't know how to replicate. A twist and turn, open mouths and gasping breaths. Hinata fidgets with the lining of the sofa cushion and Yachi counts the seconds, the thundering in her ears.

Hinata smells like sweat, something musky and boyish. Hot skin. Clean laundry. And the cologne he's started using since their first date. He swallows loudly and Yachi decides they'll be getting nowhere, this way.

She takes his face in her hands, and leans in before she can second guess herself.

He's stiff, at first, with his shock. His jaw locked, his eyes wide, his mouth clamped shut. And then he goes pliant, almost immediately. Lips falling open thoughtlessly, all the tension in his body washing out of him in lieu of allowing her control. And so she presses onwards, face aflame.

It's strange and wet and slick, the timid prodding of her tongue along his lower lip as she seeks his own. Unsure of how to do this, if she's even doing it right at all. He snaps back for a second, as soon as he feels the glide of her tongue, a squeak erupting from his throat.

"I – I – I'm s – sorry," he mumbles, mouth wet. He's red, from hair to neckline. His gaze flickers away and back, his fingers digging hard into the cushion underneath him.

Yachi wonders if she should drop her hands. A small part of her doesn't want to try that again.

The rest of her burns for another shot.

She steels her nerves, snatches at the collar of his shirt, and yanks him back into her.

He doesn't even attempt to resist.

.x.

Nothing's the same after that night, that small and unspoken anticipation buzzing under the surface now rears up. Sitting on every word, every stolen glance, every silent brush of hand. The walks home get longer and longer, their steps halted at every turn. The goodbye kisses quick, and then slow. Slower. Slower each and every time. The mold of her mouth against his a phantom whisper she remembers long after he's gone again, long after she's switching out the lights for bed; lying there, staring at the ceiling, too anxious to even sleep.

Before they know it, it's Friday again. They don't dare do this any other day, they don't even know if they should chance the weekend, when there's no real reason for him to walk her home.

But it's Friday again, she is pulling her fingers through his fiery hair for the first time and they cannot pry themselves from each other.

Hinata has an easier time giving in, of relenting himself to her. He is yielding, anticipating, ever willing to open his mouth to her curious tongue. She learns every corner there is to learn and is still eager to learn them over again, snaking her arms around his neck until they're angled awkwardly on the sofa.

This is the way she learns about the rest of him, too. The parts of him she tends to forget.

"A—ha," he gets out, reaching up to grab at her arm. Unwinding them from around him to lean away.

"Hinata?" she breathes, shrugging out of his grip.

She's never seen him this flustered, his arms going to wrap around himself, and then redirecting to fold over his lap. Her gaze flickers down, and he immediately reaches out to snatch his bag off the coffee table and into her line of sight.

"Hin—?"

"It's nothing," he cuts her off, voice cracking. "I – I should go. It's getting late."

"Ah—okay, I'll walk you out," Yachi mumbles, heart squeezing in her chest. The rejection sits sharp in her side.

"No, it's… It's okay," he says, rising from his seat stiffly. He holds his bag strangely, still pressed against himself. "I'll, uh. See you Monday."

She watches him for as second, shuffling sideways toward the entranceway of the living room, as if trying to keep her from seeing something. "Hinata?" she chirps, standing to follow after him. "Are you okay? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" he squeaks, ducking out of reach.

He stumbles over the decorative portrait her mother has yet to hang, dropping his bag. His hands fly to shield himself, but it's a second too late.

Yachi snatches her hand back, breath catching in her throat.

He's frantically searching her face, dread coloring his every feature. He must find what he's looking for, because he spins on his heel, grabs up his bag, and then tears toward the door before she can say anything. He only barely remembers his shoes, the door slamming shut behind him.

One hand pressed against her stomach, Yachi braces the other against the wall to keep herself from sinking down to the ground.

.x.

"Please don't make me talk about it," Hinata begs as soon as they find each other, Monday morning at school.

She spent the entire weekend thinking about it, and what she could possibly say to him the next time she saw him. Once the initial distress had fallen away, it was incredibly flattering. It was a lot of staring at herself in the mirror and reconsidering previously held opinions. And then, curiosity. All these _questions_ she'd never dreamed of asking, now presented with the opportunity.

It hadn't quite occurred to her he'd be unwilling to answer them.

Stifling her disappointment, Yachi gives a quick nod and doesn't say a word about it.

.x.

It's almost like starting at step one. Hinata reverts to distant, clumsy affection. Nervous to even hold her hand, and shying away from her mouth when she leans in as they part ways for the day.

It is an agonizing crawl toward Friday, and Yachi spends each day closer wondering how she can possibly crack him out of his shell.

She is so ready to move forward with her boyfriend it borders on impatience. She misses the taste of his mouth, the way he digs his fingers in when she sucks on his bottom lip. The way he looks undone, afterward.

The color of his cheeks, painting bright.

Yachi isn't any more experienced than he is, she wouldn't know how to move onward any more than he would. There is so much she _doesn't_ know she thinks she could fill a book. And while she briefly considers asking Shimizu for pointers, she is just as unwilling to reveal this secret to anyone else.

It is hers and Hinata's, tightly wound between them.

She is afraid of what one would say, learning this about them. It feels taboo, as if she'd done something wrong.

And she constantly aches to do it again.

.x.

Friday, he almost doesn't take her invitation up. She can tell, he glances back and scratches his ear and hums over some half made up excuse—and then decides against it. He follows silently all the way up, head bowed so she can't see his face every time she looks over her shoulder. It is once they cross over the threshold that he pipes up, toeing off his shoes and locking the door behind them.

"Can we…go to your room this time?"

They'd never dared before, too many things can lead to other things there and it's still so scary to think about it. Even now, itching all over to pull him in for a kiss, Yachi blanches at the thought.

But she doesn't say no.

She offers drinks all the way there, and returns to him with two cool glasses of water. He is sitting at the edge of her bed, running his palms absentmindedly along her comforter. His bag is on her desk, his phone switched to silent. He sticks out like a sore thumb here, the only other time he'd been here was to study. And they hadn't been alone then.

Somehow, having the other boy taking up the space had been less unsettling than this.

He downs the water in one go, his hand shaking when he hands the glass back to her. The minutes drag on sluggishly, her eyes flickering toward the clock on the wall uneasily. She is working up the nerve to speak when he beats her to it.

"I – I wanted to know if you were okay with…what happened. The other night."

He won't look at her, his fingers curling so hard into the covers that his knuckles stain white. He swallows a few times, face coloring appropriately.

Yachi isn't sure where to start, all the words she'd been planning to say failing her, now, when she needs them most.

"It's… It's natural, Hinata," she tells him, staring down at her hands. "I don't think it was wrong that it happened. And I—didn't mind it, either."

Silence, drawing on and on until she can't put it off any longer. She peeks up at him, shyly, and straightens at the sight that greets her.

Astonishment opens up his features, makes his eyes wide and wondering and his mouth fall open shamelessly.

"R – Really?" he squeaks.

"Yes, of… Of course."

A touched look comes across his face, and he snaps his mouth shut. "Th – Thank you, Yacchan!" he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. "I thought—I was so worried you'd hate me. I thought you'd think I was gross or…or something."

She hesitates, and then reaches out to place her hand over his. She's not sure if he's looking for comfort, but he accepts the gesture none the less. His smile brightens up his entire face, his hand turning by the wrist capture her fingers against his palm.

"Thanks for understanding," he says, folding his other hand over hers. "I thought for sure you wouldn't want anything to do with me."

This, too, is comforting. She can't mistake his expression for anything else. He'd missed her just as much.

She returns his smile, relieved.

.x.

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 **A.N.** **: Thanks for reading.**


End file.
